There is dirt on the living room floor, clumps of mud that have dried and fallen in flattish pieces, zig-zagged from the tread of a small shoe. I vacuumed this morning, but it doesn’t matter, the dirt is still there. I could vacuum now and it would be there tomorrow in the exact same place. Maybe a few feet off to the side, depending on someone’s path.
During the month of January I was filled with discipline and new goals and I worked up a sweat every single day, wrote down the things I ate and avoided the things I shouldn’t eat and my pants grew loose and I spent my evenings smiling at my new muscles and running my hands over my leaner waistline. During the month of February I started with my son’s birthday cake and I didn’t really stop after that, and my pants grew tight again and I started avoiding mirrors and untouched gym cards.
Last week I spent hours hunched over my laptop surfing for story ideas and writing things that felt increasingly formulaic—first paragraph is for SEO, second paragraph is to entice the click-through, find the photo add the tags categorize the post pitch the headline hit publish and move on to the next thing—and next week I will do the same and the week after that. Sometimes I think about how I miss writing for pleasure but I am so tired of screens and words and somewhere along the line it all started feeling like work. Tagged: blocked, writer’s block, lost, lost inspiration, lost creativity, laptop ennui.
Sit down and eat and quit messing around, I snap. Pick up your Legos. Stop doing that to the cat. Guys, KNOCK IT OFF. I say these things over and over and over and over.
I have the sense that my life is revolving like a giant gear, the same cogs going by every time I look. Something is advancing forward, but what? My children. My wrinkles. Everywhere things are moving but parts of me have been in the same place for months.